


When the Ashes Fall

by aTasteofCaramell



Category: Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (2012), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Avengers AU, Blood, Gen, Insanity, Loki wins, Mind Control, Pain, Post Avengers (Movie), Victory isn't all it's cracked up to be, or does he?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-19
Updated: 2013-04-19
Packaged: 2017-12-08 10:38:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/760416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aTasteofCaramell/pseuds/aTasteofCaramell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki is surrounded by those he has conquered, but he is utterly alone.</p><p>And even the largest of forest fires goes out when there is nothing left to burn.</p><p> </p><p>(For those who care, I now have an email address (atasteofcaramell at gmail dot com) and a Twitter account where I will post writing progresses (twitter.com/tasteofcaramell).)</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the Ashes Fall

He’s alone and scared because the murmurs won’t leave him. He knew this is how it would be, but he didn’t realize how it would terrify him. The minds are small and his is vast, but even then it’s not enough. His heart is trembling and full to bursting with those he stole. He can hear them inside, and he has to fight to control all of their desires, hopes, and dreams, because if he doesn’t they’ll bite.

Ants are weak and simple, and he can make them scatter with a single blow, but there are billions of them, and if they turn to stop and fight—

He trembles in a street,  alone, giving them all desires for rest. The sun beats down, pushing against his lungs and making it hard to _breathe._ They drop down as he walks, slumbering on the street, in the grass, against a tree. Slumped over on tables. Collapsed in beds. Animals wander into houses through open doors. Smoke rises from unattended ovens. The murmurs quiet, and the world slowly fills with soft breathing. A sharp pain stabs through his chest and dissipates.

Even Asgard can’t reach him here, not when the ants are armed and biting at his enemies.

He grips the scepter in his hand. It’s as hot as blood, humming and throbbing in time to his heartbeat. It and the Tesseract support him, expanding his own strength of will.

He’s exhausted. So tired. But he’s afraid to sleep, and when he does he isn’t resting, because his mind is still active, thrumming through the Tesseract, searching out shaking hearts and pulling them into line.

He comforts many, because that makes it easier. Those who are afraid, though fiercely loyal, he gives desires for nothing else than his own satisfaction, and as long as they believe him satisfied, they are content. Warmth fills their hearts, but his own churns and is icy with the strain.

The small ones, the children, are the hardest to hold. Their souls are newer, more complex and too fast-changing. Their smallness threatens to slip through the cracks and break free of his control.

He keeps walking, wandering with no destination among the towering buildings, some of which are broken off at the top like trees after a cyclone. He comes upon more. His mind runs swiftly through souls, warming them with drowsiness and as he walks they sink down to the ground and sleep. He steps over them, finding a strange relief in their inanimateness, in their eyelids that close over their eyes and hide the orbs from his sight. It’s maddening to look into their eyes, because he just sees himself looking back. His own soul is in their hearts, threading through and netting their desires like an invisible vice. It’s a soft, comfortable prison that keeps them content and longing for more, but he can’t stand it, because there are thousands and thousands and millions and billions of them. Every day he sees someone else, sees another soul, but it may as well be identical to the last because there’s only one thing keeping them in line and it’s himself.

The last of the souls flash through his mind and the entire Earth is asleep. Pain laces through his heart again, itching and burning. The scepter shakes in his hand, glowing brighter. The pain flashes outwards, stabbing through his flesh and Loki gasps, coming to a stop and gripping at his chest with his fingers, waiting for it to vanish as it always does. His fingernails dig into his skin.

He doesn’t wear his armor anymore, because it’s uncomfortable and heavy and he can’t _breathe_ with it on, not anymore, and they don’t care whether he wears it or not. They want what he wants, because he’s inside them all.

The pain doesn’t go away. It stretches further and swells, blazing through his limbs, making his blood boil and his tissues smolder. Loki chokes and sinks down in the midst of the sleeping people. The scepter’s tip hits the ground with a clink and Loki doubles over. In the reflection of the rod's golden surface, his eyes look back at himself. The green is gone, long faded into a blackish yellow-grey, set in a thin face with pallid, slick skin.  As he watches, the color of the skin is changing to ashy blue because he can’t _breathe_.

He shudders, tearing at his clothing so he can _breathe_ again and the voices of sleep whisper through his mind and he screams out for them to be silent. He doesn’t know if he screams it out loud or in his head, because it’s all the same now. Either way there’s nobody to hear him but himself.

The burning grows hotter until it’s cold and numb. His heart is cracking apart, leaking pieces of souls that strain at the net and blood that wells up in his mouth; blood that is too thick and too ruby-red. It wells over his teeth and trembles on the edges of his lips before splattering down on the ground and the handle of the scepter, sizzling as it hits the steaming pavement. 

He struggles to hold on and loses control over some, their dreams drifting into nightmares, because he himself is having a nightmare. The murmurs grow frightened and pleading with him to save them.

Hot wind blows across his back; he's still tearing at his clothing and it's in tatters now, shredded cloth fluttering across the street like broken-winged blackbirds. He gasps in air that tastes dead, and it irritates his lungs and he starts coughing and coughing until his throat is bleeding too and his lungs are breaking apart and drifting loose with the lost pieces of souls. 

Loki looks up, over the motionless bodies and he screams again, wishing for something, anything, to come and take this away.

But there’s something wrong. Wild and startled, he falls silent, because there’s somebody upright, standing. It’s a mortal girl, standing next to a brick wall and looking at him, rubbing one eye with her palm. She comes closer and Loki is terrified. He searches his swollen heart for her soul, but he can’t find it and she comes closer.

She’s tiny, infant fat making her arms and legs plump and rosy. She comes closer and gets down on her knees, looking up into his face. Her eyes are almond-colored and warm and he’s looking at someone else because he isn’t in there. Loki stares at her, feasting his gaze on somebody that isn’t himself. 

The pain is getting greater and it isn’t stopping. The girl blinks, slowly, and looks up at him, blond hair falling over her face as the wind stirs her plaid clothing.

Something else is dripping on the ground and it isn’t blood and the wind is suddenly cold on his face and Loki can’t see clearly, the rest of the world blurring and going dark except for the girl’s untouched soul. He reaches up, fearful, hand grasping for hope, striving to touch her face.

“Hjálpa meg,” he whispers, and then his eyes slide shut and he slumps over. His head would have hit the ground, but the girl reaches out and catches it, cushioning the impact with her palms. She leans over his body as he fidgets, the scepter glowing brighter and sifting through the souls as it rests on his open palm. More blood comes from Loki’s mouth and he twitches, eyelids fluttering as his mind soothes the souls and keeps them calm.

The girl runs her fingers over his forehead, smoothing out the creases. She traces her fingers over the wet streaks that reflect the sunlight on his hollow cheeks. Loki relaxes, and his breathing evens. The scepter flashes blue lightening that chases away the shadows for a mile around, and then the blue orb shatters and the net breaks. 

The people open their eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't speak Old Norse, but I believe "Hjalpa meg" translates to "help me".


End file.
